Kiss the Cook
by Citizenjess
Summary: Summoning the Mighty One is one of the few joys that Virgil and Norman allow themselves. Crackfic.


There's probably something about writing more than one incredibly silly story in a week that throws off the cosmic balance of the universe. That said, here's a story where Norman has his own cooking show!

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**Kiss the Cook**

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It was just your average, mind-numbingly dull Sunday afternoon when it happened. Max's homework was finished, his mom was at the museum appraising some newly-found artifacts, and even Felix was away until Monday, visiting his dad in Fairfield. The Mighty One, used to spending his free time battling against giant eyeballs and all forms of monsters, was officially bored.

Such was how he found himself channel-surfing, slouched lethargically on his bed. Thor, his faithful pet iguana, sat on his desk, idling by his History textbook. Even he looked sort of listless, his thin green tail swishing slowly over the edge of the slight precipice. "Whatcha think, buddy?" Max asked him, scratching his head lazily. "Another endless episode of Battle Monsters, or eighties game show re-runs?" He sighed and hit the 'channel' button again. "Man, even getting ahead on Advanced Chem is starting to look good right now," he groaned.

He depressed the button on the remote again, coming upon a pan-out of an audience, clapping politely. The title of the show he'd just happen on flashed on the screen, and Max palmed his forehead. "No," he whispered, gaping at the television in disbelief. "No way …"

"And we're back. This is 'Cooking with Norman'. I'm your host, Norman, and today I'll be showing you how to make breakfast." Max's guardian looked huge and hulking in his stark white apron with the words 'Kitchen Warrior' emblazoned across the front. His head was adorned with a chef's hat that was probably taller than Virgil. That he was using his sword to chop up fruit – and doing so with remarkable precision, for that matter – was both alarming and awe-inspiring, as evidenced by the appreciating lauding from the audience.

And speaking of Virgil, the fowl stood primly off to the side, and then seemed to stare at Max directly through the television screen. "Mighty One," he greeted. "You're needed quite seriously in Amsterdam. Find a piece of paper to write down the directions to the portal, please. Hurry," he urged, when Max continued to stare dumbfounded at Norman, now expertly juggling cantaloupes. "Focus, Mighty One," Virgil frowned with more than a touch of irritation.

Max closed his eyes and shook his head, but to no avail – Norman was still there when he opened them, cracking eggs over a gigantic frying pan. "Uh, sorry, Virg," the Capbearer muttered, grabbing up a pad of Post-Its from his desk. "Shoot."

Virgil rattled off the directions, interrupted a couple of times by appreciative audience cooing as Norman showed off an omelet that could have fed a small army of Vikings. It probably had, in fact.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, folks," Norman was saying. "It steadies your metabolism, and it's just a delicious way to start your morning."

"Norman, we need to go," Virgil nudged him, trying to be discreet.

Norman waved his hand in mid-sentence, too wrapped up in what he was doing to fully hear what Virgil had said. "Next I'll show you how to turn a boring old protein shake into something magical," he continued, plugging in a blender.

"Norman," Virgil said sharply, arms (wings, really) akimbo. Norman looked up from where he was pouring a thickly creamy concoction into the blender. "The Mighty One, Norman," the diminutive bird continued, more mutedly but just as stern. "Concentrate." He pointed in the direction of the TV screen, and Max felt compelled to wave: "hey, Normy."

"Hola." He looked sheepishly at Virgil, and then grinned at Max. "So how'd I do?" he asked cautiously.

"C'est magnifique," Max enthused in his phoniest French accent. From the corner of the screen, he could see Virgil roll his eyes. "So uh, I'll see you guys in Amsterdam?" he hedged quickly.

Virgil made a shooing motion to indicate haste, and Max hopped off his bed. He stretched his unused muscles, grateful for the distraction, even if it was potentially risking life and limb. "So much for a lazy Sunday," he murmured, and then plucked the Cosmic Cap off of his pillow. He moved to turn off the television, snorting loudly at the very last thing he heard: "Norman, now."

"Okay, okay. That's all for today, folks. Tune in next week, when I'll show you some great things you can do with chicken."


End file.
